It was a moment, like a recollection of things to come, walking between Haines and Buck when Buck turned to look at me and said nothing. In that silence I saw my own image, looking shabby in dusty black (insincere?) between the two of them looking hip and expensive. Is this how others see me?

Buck still leading Haines on about my Hamlet theory, although so far I am not tempted to break my silence. I’ll tell it when I tell it, it can wait. Whatever. To him it won’t be worth more than the price of a pin. He told Haines I prove by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. Haines probably thinks I am my father’s ghost. He also thinks Seattle is much like Elsinore (I don’t see it). With the full weight of ownership of his rightful property that can only come from an Englishman who hasn’t read it, Haines called Hamlet a wonderful tale. How delightful. Isn’t that special.

Like this:

While she died everybody prayed and the priest came with his recommendation for her departing soul. We all (but one) kneeled, bowed our heads, and listened with pious reverence to her loud rattling breath. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. That breath makes the dream not a dream. I can smell wet ashes still and it tangles into my soul. She comes staring at me, striking me down with her eyes. Speaking and help me I hear nothing. Her agony on me alone. We were all (save me) chewers of corpses.

Like this:

The Sound is a mirror today, at least while the sun break lasts. But I can see now the clouds are beginning to cover the sun, slowly wholly and the water’s morning peace is turning dim. I sang for her while she was dying. Her door was open and I sang so she could hear until she cried and I went to her. The words she said made her cry, love’s bitter mystery. I was silent. The Sound from here is a bowl of bitter waters. Where now?

Like this:

Buck thinks he is a stand up guy, speaking without a filter about everything, bleeding me for money too He wants me to get some money out of Haines but I can’t stand the thought of bowing down to him. I will not serve. And if Buck thinks I’m a bit sinister for my beliefs so be it. Better friends than he have questioned my disbeliefs. My mother asked me to pray for her while she was dying but I still cannot pay a false homage even to the most logical and coherent of absurdities. That may shock Buck’s Aunt, but I will stick with my usual defenses. Cunning. Exile. And this time silence.